‘How the hell do you know what faerie smut is?’
My smile widens. ‘I know lots of things.’
‘Be careful what you say, I still wear glasses. They just have significantly thinner frames,’ she mumbles.
‘I wasn’t kidding, you looked great in them.’ I didn’t know I had a thing for glasses but apparently I do.
Googling her wasn’t a conscious decision, but before I knew it, I was two hours and eighteen articles in. All her socials are private so I had to do things the old-fashioned way. It seems I love torturing myself.
The DJ starts mashing up Dua Lipa with Chris Brown’s ‘Post to Be’, and Minnie freezes.
‘What is it?’ I ask innocently, like the guiltless bystander I am.
She points up. ‘It’s Chris Brown!’
‘I think you’ll find it’s Omarion.’
Her eyes narrow. ‘It’s still a Chris Brown song.’
‘No DJ would play Chris Brown. He’s problematic, don’t you know?’ I swig my beer to keep from smiling.
‘You requested this.’
I recoil. ‘I would never!’
‘You’re a terrible liar, Jack Bowden.’
‘Offt, she full-named me.’
‘The scales have completely tipped in your favour; you know way more about me than I know about you,’ she says. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
I swirl my beer. ‘I really want an ice sculpture of myself. Maybe in that same pose Ross’ is doing over there, where he’s contemplating the mysteries of the universe.’
She tries not to laugh and fails. ‘And here was me thinking you were going to admit to having a wife and three beautiful but slightly feral children.’
I snort and yield a step. ‘Absolutelynot. I’d rather hand Micah the Championship.’
She takes in my reaction evenly. ‘Commitment-phobe?’
‘What gave it away?’
‘Takes one to know one.’ She taps her glass against mine. ‘Did your parents have a horrendous divorce too?’
I try to smile, but I’m not sure it’s convincing. ‘Something like that.’
Chapter 8
MINNIE
MIAMI
‘Mum?!What are you doing here?’
She’s barely recognisable as she breaks away from the Real Housewives of F1 circa 2006. The only reason I notice her as I’m walking through the paddock is because of a pair of familiar Versace sunglasses. Her hair’s freshly highlighted, her nails are manicured, her face is fully made up, her heels are sky-high, a jacket’s thrown artfully over her shoulder, and there isn’t a poo bag in sight.
‘Don’t cry, Minnie Me, think of your make-up,’ she chastises as we embrace. I catch an achingly familiar waft of Chanel – the one luxury she’s maintained since my dad left us broke.
‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat as I pull back, dabbing under my eyes.
